An Inheritance of Shadows
by Sanguinity
Summary: The quiet reflections of an old BloodClan cat on the way he's lived his life. Rated K plus to be safe.


**A/N: Hi. First story! This is a BloodClan oneshot. (: I'm working on longer story. But won't post it for a while yet, because I'm not sure if I can update that frequently.  
**

* * *

It's an ordinary night in this city of Nofurs, I suppose. The stars, so small and far away; the moon hidden behind a bank of cloud - or perhaps smoke - after all, nobody here, Nofur or otherwise, needs their light. We can see by the lights-on-poles - they are orange but somehow still cold. But they do give light.

I am sitting in my favourite place. It is a small, narrow alley like so many others around the city, but no one comes here - the Nofurs dislike this district, and the cats do not come because Nofurs leave no food and there is no trash or rats. I am alone - I like it this way.

When I was younger I was never alone. I remember my kittenhood, spent in a sewer. My mother was a young black cat, and unlike so many she-cats, actually cared very much about her kits - we were her first litter, close to her heart. We never saw our father, my siblings and I, but that didn't matter - our mother was all we needed. There were three of us, all toms - Marrow, the biggest, Rind, the little one, and I, the middle kitten. Mother raised us well, taught us to hunt and fight. When we were eight moons old, she disappeared. We had to fend for ourselves.

This world is the world of BloodClan, andevery catfends for themselves, regardless of others. The unwritten law that governs our lives: _survival of the fittest_. The weak perish and only the strong live to pass on their legacies to litters of kits. Marrow was strong. He got food easily, jostling at the dumps and scavenging with a ferocious determination, never hesitating to use his claws. He didn't care about me or Rind, but neither of us him to. That was not the way we lived.

Me, I scavenged with perhaps a little less violence, giving way to larger cats but pushing aside smaller ones. I could feed myself, even if my ribs showed through my fur. But Rind - the runt was, from birth, the weakest. The weak perish, and so did my little brother.

I look up at the night sky. It's cloudy as usual, but I remember hearing a tale of about the wild cats who live in the forest - the ones we fought a few moons before. It's said that they believe that when they die, they become stars. It's a rat's tail of rubbish, probably, but sometimes I wonder if I can see Rind up there. What'd have his life been like if I'd looked after him, so many moons ago? It probably wouldn't have made much difference, anyway. He'd have been killed by a stronger cat, sooner or later.

Yes - it's an undeniably hard life we BloodClan cats lead. But we're raised to live it. From young, we learn to fight and push and bully. We learn to use our claws. Every life is filled with minor dramas - killings, deaths, battles, with no room for grief or regret. All cats in this city of Nofurs and rats are caught up in a tangled web of blood - save the soft kittypets, naive and protected by their Nofur owners. We despise them, but sometimes I envy them - they are so innocent, so safe, so happy in their golden cages. They have never seen the carnage that lies outside.

But we have, far too often. I remember the first time I got into a real fight, not merely a short scuffle. I was maybe twelve moons old, a thin young cat. I'd been digging in a trashcan and found a whole steak - it was rotting, but nevertheless - I'd never seen such a big piece of meat in my life. I began to devour it, but a she-cat maybe a couple of moons older than me, wiry and tall, saw me with it. She wanted it; she demanded it from me. Normally I'd have backed off, but for some reason I got angry. I fought back. But she was bigger and more experienced - in the end, I fled, deeply scratched and bleeding badly, and she kept the meat. I went hungry for a moon because I was limping and couldn't scavenge fast enough.

I killed my first rat when I was a little older. It was difficult -they're big and fast and their longs fangs wield a poisonous bite, but they are good eating, even if their flesh is sour from the trash they eat. But then, what they eat isn't so different from what we eat.

In BloodClan, kittens grow up too fast. So did I. I grew bigger, faster, stronger. And more bold, more brave...more vicious. By twenty moons, I had killed a dog, and wore his teeth as a badge of honour on my claws. Then I killed a kittypet, on a dare. The Nofurs never caught me. But I spiked the kittypet collar with dog teeth and wore it myself.

When I was twenty-two moons old, I killed another cat, in a bloody fight to the death.

That was when I started to consider myself a real BloodClan warrior - toughest of the tough, fiercest of the fierce.

I was fierce enough and skilled enough to rise into the circle of elite guards that surrounds the leader of BloodClan. At that time, the leader was Lash, a tabby she-cat larger than most toms. She killed indiscriminately any cat who displeased her, and encouraged her warriors to do the same. I confess - I did it too, with much doubt, but I did it. I killed many cats in her name. Cats who'd never done anything to me, cats who looked up at me with pleading eyes, cats who begged for mercy with their last breaths...cats who died just because they were weak.

It's a warm night, but I shiver.

I'm no longer an elite guard. A younger cat pushed me out, just like I pushed a senior cat out when I joined them. I was beaten roundly in a fight that I still carry scars from. I'm not what I was in my younger days. I'm back to scavenging trashcans during the day, but I spend my nights in this alley.

I wonder at the wisdom of our way of life. Each cat for himself only: is that really the best way? Well - maybe I am only thinking like this because I am old and weak now and cannot survive easily on my own. But I remember the battle with the wild forest cats. They didn't fight as individuals - they fought together. They helped each other and they had healers, too, who cared for their injured and weak instead of leaving them to die. It's supposed to be a sign of their softness - but if they are so soft, how did they beat us? For a short while, I dreamt of running and going to live with them. But I wouldn't be allowed to leave BloodClan, and I probably wouldn't be accepted by them either.

Last night I had a dream.

There was this cat. She was old; she had as many scars in her dark grey fur as some of our warriors. But she most definitely was not a BloodClan cat. There was a wisdom in her blue eyes that I have never seen in any other cat: a wisdom that cannot be gained through bloodshed and violence. She was standing at the edge of the forest - I think she was a forest cat. She looked at me. Then she sort of shimmered and spiralled up into the sky, a star.

Maybe it's not a rat's tail of rubbish after all.

Life in the city has never held much happiness for me. I think I am going to attempt to escape. I'm padding down the street, now. Suspicious eyes gleam malevolent in the shadows where the Nofurs' orange light does not reach.

This is the border of the city. There are always guards here. Two of them are coming towards me, two large, well-muscled toms in their prime. They narrow their eyes at me - two yellow, two green.

The green-eyed one draws back his lips in a snarl. "Where do you think you're going, old rat?"

I don't answer. I run. I dart like the rat he calls me, through the gap between them, and bound towards the forest, paws pounding on dirt and dust. But my legs aren't as fast and strong as they used to be. They catch up.

One of them pins me down, struggling feebly, while the other rips off my collar and raises his paw for the death blow.

* * *

** A/N: The end. (: Review if you want cookies. But I get ninety percent of the cookies. Plus ten percent. xD**


End file.
